


Kinktober Ficlets 2017: Aftercare

by PoppyAlexander



Series: Vicious/Delicious: Johnstrade BDSM Stories [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Aftercare, BDSM, Five Plus One, M/M, Sub!John, dom!Greg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-01
Updated: 2017-11-01
Packaged: 2019-01-27 16:32:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12586056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoppyAlexander/pseuds/PoppyAlexander
Summary: Five times Greg took care of John; and one time John cared for him.





	Kinktober Ficlets 2017: Aftercare

John is weeping. Greg has pushed him to his edges, forcing choices John hates making (the bit or the ball, the cuffs or the rope, the belt or the paddle); demanding a lifted chin, a steady-held gaze--challenging him to stay down without relying on the expected postures, gestures; delivering three tender touches for every one slap, pinch, bite, or blow. Greg murmurs praise, tells John he is pleased with him, so pleased, and goes into the corner of the trunk where he keeps his equipment: for binding, beating, teasing, tormenting. There is a thick stack of clean, soft, sharply folded handkerchiefs here, too, for moments like these. Each is embroidered with a “J” in the corner. He shakes one loose, arranges it between his fingers and thumb, gets close to John, touching him gently, and presses away the tears from the corners of his eyes, the wet from his upper lip. “You’ve done so well,” he whispers, “I’m so proud of you.”

 

John is shivering. It’s winter and he is naked on the floor, and Greg has worked him hard, made him sweat. The gooseflesh trails along beside each rivulet of perspiration, down his forehead and the nape of his neck, over his shoulders and in the small of his back behind his bound wrists. He shudders, curls his knees toward his chest, and Greg even hears his teeth clicking together now and then. Greg leaves him just long enough to fetch a thick, fleecey blanket--green, with a print of moose and bears--from the clothes dryer where it’s been warming, and gets down to his own knees to drape it over John’s bundled body, wrapping and tucking even as he slides his hands around to unfasten John’s wrists. He strokes his hands in sweeping swaths over the whole surface of John’s back, down his arms, warming him. “Feels nice?” he asks quietly, “Let’s get you up to the bed, soon as you’re ready, pet. We can curl up close and share it.”

 

John is bleeding. Despite Greg’s disciplined swings, the care he takes even as he puts his full weight behind each blow, the lines overlapped one too many times, or he misjudged the angle, or John--bracing himself--flexed a muscle that shifted a bone that thinned the skin  _just there_. Nothing serious, no emergency, and they were nearly there anyway, so Greg took pity on him, let John finish him wet and eager, finished John rough and careless. But it’s not nothing, either, and so Greg goes for the kit he keeps under the foot of the bed, tells John to lay on his belly, gets his cheaters off the nightstand so he can see what he’s doing. John wants to argue against Greg’s choices of ointment, gauze, bandage, tape, and he cranes his neck to look over his own shoulder. John comes up quicker than usual, at the border of taking charge (after all, it’s his area of expertise). “You trust me with so much,” Greg reminds him, meeting his eyes over the rims of the glasses worn on the tip of his nose. “Please trust me with this, too.”

 

John is frustrated. Disappointed. Desperate. Greg is leaving him as he found him, a punishment for having been caught with his prick in his hand. A new game they’re playing, finding ways to bring a little of their private dynamic out into the world. Greg edged him close with all his favourite touches, all the right words, with open mouth and closed hand, then yanked him back with shocks of pain, sensations of cold, everything he could think of. Then again. Then again. And then no more. John whines into his gag, writhing, wanton, and it’s gorgeous, but Greg has already spent himself across John’s stiff cock, in the golden brown hair at its base; they’re done, even if John is not. As Greg unwinds the straps from the bedposts, from John’s wrists and ankles, he is careful about where he touches him, no longer the cause of his suffering (though obviously he is suffering), no longer teasing. He pats John’s chest, and his cheek, affectionate and understanding, but also firm. With his lips quirked into a half-smile, he assures, “You’ll survive it.”

 

John is ideal. Never fails to fight the sink and slide into submission, keeps Greg on his toes, keeps him thinking. Surrenders in the end, completely, so trusting, so courageous. Likes everything turned up to eleven, likes it rough, wants Greg’s creative cruelties the way other lovers wanted love notes and champagne brunches. He is eager to please, will bow or kneel or lick Greg’s boots all with equal fervour, and he wants to be punished, just for the sake of it. He takes it. All of it. Begs for more and never says,  _enough_. He would stay down in it for hours, days, maybe forever if Greg didn’t pull him back from it, and it’s a real temptation to let him overdo--every damn time--because he’s so bloody gorgeous when he finally gives it all up. But he’s had enough--doesn’t know it, won’t admit it--so Greg touches him kindly, changes his tone of voice, persuades him back to reality with firm, gentle repetition of a single word: “John.”

 

Greg is collapsing. He can feel himself falling apart. Doesn’t care. He deserves it; what is he? To do all this to a good man. A proud man. To whip and humiliate him, spit on him, slap and bite him. Bigging himself up by bringing John down. John Watson. His man. Greg’s hands shake as he reaches for the buckles, and he fumbles to open them, to give John back his voice, the freedom to hit back. Can’t look him in the eye, and giving his last commands his throat is thick with muck. What is he but a bully? John is so open to everything Greg deals out, and Greg goes hard at him, but this time he’s gone too far, and scared himself. Having taken total control of a man willing to surrender to him, instead of feeling grounded and weighted to the earth by the responsibility--the privilege--of it, as he usually does, suddenly Greg finds himself coming untethered, without boundaries, spinning plates, juggling daggers all aimed at his own throat. It’s too much. What the hell is wrong with him that even wants such a thing--a man on his knees, praying to him? At last he’s got John upright and unbound, but John’s face is creased with worry and he puts his hands on Greg, guides him to sit, settles close beside him and pulls Greg’s head down onto his chest, and strokes him and strokes him, hushing with long, soft whooshes of breath Greg feels on his cheek and neck. John’s body is steady and strong, and he holds Greg for a long time. “We’re good,” John tells him. “We’re just fine.”


End file.
